


Welcome to the Family (Check Your Sanity at the Door)

by NoelleAngelFyre



Series: Fire and Gunpowder [2]
Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Crazy Antics, F/M, Kyle likes her anyway, Relationship Beginnings, daredevil stunts, this girl is crazy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-15
Updated: 2015-07-15
Packaged: 2018-04-09 11:47:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4347398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She's beautiful.  She's wild.  She's certifiably insane.  She's going to be the death of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Welcome to the Family (Check Your Sanity at the Door)

**Author's Note:**

> 2nd installment in the "Fire and Gunpowder" series. Kyle learns just how and why Anastazia Darbinyan has been able to get rid of so many other bodyguards.

In general, she remembers very little about the various men—and even a couple women—who have been her appointed guard throughout the years. Her memory isn’t that terrible, make no mistake, but really, every single one of them can be grouped into types. Once that happens, their individuality more or less gets lost in translation, and she just hasn’t bothered to try and remember more about them than necessary.

There’s the _I’ll Take Care of You, Sweetie_ type—the coddlers, the mother hens, the ones who looked at her like a wayward child who just needed some T.L.C. to get back on the right path. And then there’s the _I’ll Show You, Young Lady_ —the take-charge folks, the taskmasters, the tight-lipped ones who were determined to take the reins and tame her like a wild horse. Her personal favorites were the _Dear God, Get Me Promoted_ —the ones who just saw her as a foot in the door and waited for her father to take them off babysitting duty—and the _Lock Her Up and Throw Away the Key_ —the poor souls she essentially drove into the ground after forty-eight hours, all of whom she is quite certain are currently living a quiet life in the country or taking up residence in a place with padded walls and hourly medication rounds.

With this in mind, it’s a little interesting for her to have someone she can’t classify within the first week of duty.

Actually, she’s fairly impressed with Mr. Nimbus, that he’s lasted not only one, but two weeks with her. And he’s had a decent attitude about it, even if he continues to catch comments left and right from the rest of the family, and he still hasn’t followed _Rule #2_. Something needs to be done about that, because so far he’s lasted a bit longer than half the others, and if he’s going to survive in this family, he needs to learn how to bite when they bark.

Naturally, the best way is to give him something he can throw back in their faces, all of them, each and every one. Some grand achievement that no one else can claim. Daddy’s quiet approval won’t work, because that can come and go within a matter of minutes, and it’s not really that big of a deal. Notches on his belt, to use the polite terminology, absolutely won’t do, because he belongs to _her_ , and he’s not going to be spending his free time in the company of loose women when his focus is better served elsewhere. Not to mention, it’s about the lowest a man can stoop to earn praise amongst his peers.

It’s not really her affair if he earns his place in the family or falls short of the group’s approval, but his determination to excel in this job—the single-most undesired position one can hold in the family—is starting to grow on her. At the very least, she doesn’t grimace every time he walks in the room. And he’s cute, which helps. Finally, someone who isn’t twenty years her senior or ten years her junior. It’s a pleasant change, a breath of fresh air, and if nothing else she can probably tolerate him until Daddy decides to promote him. And she’s sure he’ll be promoted, one day, maybe even one day soon, because he hasn’t royally slipped up and she thinks Daddy might also be a little impressed with his work ethic. Or maybe he’s just politely neutral. One can never really tell.

***

Anastazia is a girl who takes opportunities as they come; planning is for the obsessive-compulsive, and every plan has a weakness, a potential downfall, an Achilles’ heel. One little thread can come loose and the whole scheme will unravel like a bad knitting project. When you are impulsive, think on your feet, plan as you go, then nothing can surprise you. She acts when she sees the chance, and whatever comes her way is dealt with accordingly.

Three weeks in to this new season of life, so to speak, she makes the announcement that she needs new clothes. It’s not a complete lie, because there’s a new club in town that she’d love to try out, and a new club means a new wardrobe. One simply doesn’t wear the old to the new. After skimming through her closet and tossing out some items that she’s grown bored of, there’s room to spare and it’s just begging to be filled.

Daddy looks less than thrilled when she comes into his study and makes her announcement. Public places in broad daylight are generally off-limits to her, without proper protection. She’s actually a little insulted on Nimbus’ behalf, that he still isn’t considered proper protection and doesn’t even have a gun yet. Honestly, what does he have to do, take a bullet for her because he can’t return fire? Her father is a complete idiot sometimes.

Her father agrees to the trip, after she makes an idle comment about trying out the new club in her birthday suit rather than new clothes, but tells her that Nimbus will be accompanied by at least two other members of the family. Again, ridiculous, but apparently he thinks there haven’t been enough public outings for Nimbus to go about his job without a chaperone. Whatever. As long as she can just get out of this house and take a breath of fresh air.

She strolls from the study to the lounge, where some of the family is playing poker. Nimbus is sitting with his back to the unlit fireplace, directly facing her. He doesn’t look uncomfortable, per say, but definitely not having a regular thrill. Actually, he looks bored out of his mind.

“Let’s go, Nimbus,” she cuts through the quiet chatter, “shopping trip. Renold, Carter, you guys too. Daddy’s orders.”

It makes her smile a little when Nimbus is the first up and the first one to her side; the other two, predictably, grumble and make a point of looking to see what kind of hand they’re losing out on, and then slowly rise from the chairs and amble forward, by which time she and Nimbus are already halfway out the door.

Renold and Carter get themselves into the front, the former in the driver’s seat and the latter riding shotgun. She discretely rolls up the window between front and back, and then settles against the leather upholstery with a content sigh. The silence lasts under five minutes, before Nimbus lifts an eyebrow at her.

“Shopping trip?”

She shrugs. “New club in town. I have to look my best.”

“Let me guess,” he continues, a smirk playing across his lips; he really wears that look quite well, “I’ll be exploring this new club with you.”

She shrugs innocently, but there’s still a coy smile on her face and she knows he reads the expression perfectly, from the way his smirk broadens, he shakes his head a little, and then comfortable silence falls once more. It’s not the tense and awkward pause she’s used to, with the others, and she is starting to like it. She’s starting to like it a lot, actually.

Renold and Carter act like a pair of put-out toddlers, trudging along after them from store to store, boutiques and shoe shops, and for their poor attitude, she puts them in charge of carrying the bags. From the corner of her eye, she can see the glares they’re aiming at Nimbus, but if he notices it too, he says nothing. He keeps his gaze ahead, from side to side, scanning the area like a hawk. He has a very intent gaze. Intent gaze and powerful eyes.

By the time they finish at her favorite boutique—the one from which half her closet, if not more, has been purchased—she’s had to excuse the bag-boys twice to go and put stuff in the car. She behaves herself and stays put while they leave, propping herself up against a nearby pillar, and spends time examining her remaining attendant with a careful eye. It’s fairly obvious he is wearing hand-me-downs, second-hand store items, most likely. He has no need for a closet full of fancy and expensive suits, but he could stand to move up a bit in the wardrobe department. The things he wears certainly won’t work for outings. Not with her, anyway.

Inspired, she reaches out, grabs his hand, and drags him into the store across the way, a little shop she’s enjoyed a few times before, for more casual wear than anything, but the selective is for both genders and she remembers seeing some good items in here. And, according to the window sign, they’re having a sale. _Even better._

“This really isn’t necessary.” He protests, weakly, as she pulls him through the door and around a couple corners to find the men’s section. “Miss Darbinyan, really, I don’t need—”

“Yes, you do. So stop arguing with me about it.” She comes to an abrupt halt by one set of racks; he nearly topples into her as a result, and when she chances a look over her shoulder at him, he’s looking incredibly uncomfortable and is eyeing the exit a little too closely. Typical. She really is going to have to deal with that humility streak. It doesn’t suit him, or her for that matter.

She grabs a few things from various racks—dark-wash denim and long-sleeved shirts, mostly—and then grabs the front of his shirt and pulls him into the dressing rooms. Fortunately, there’s no employees back here, because she’s sure there was something about a “Men Only” sign back at the entrance.

“Okay,” she says, dropping her voice a level; in the same movement, she tosses the clothes at him and locks the door, “pick something you like, put it on, and do it fast. We’re leaving.”

“We’re what?”

“Leaving, soon. So hurry up.” She nods at the clothes he caught in both hands while tugging down the zipper on her dress. His eyes widen, his mouth opens to say something—something about _this isn’t proper_ or _you shouldn’t be doing that_ , no doubt, because he still has the silly idea that modesty is the way to go—and then it closes again when her dress drops to the ground and the clothes she’s wearing underneath come into view. 

Granted, the shorts and strapless shirt both have a hem that’s been cut way too high, but it’s not her underwear. Might as well be; she’s showing more leg than she normally does, even in a dress, but her usual black tights wouldn’t have meshed well with the pastel-yellow sundress. At the very least, Renold and Carter would have been suspicious.

“Seriously, Nimbus,” she says, with a pointed look, “move it, or I’ll dress you myself.”

With that, she pulls her hair free of the clip, tosses the mass of curls a couple times over her shoulders, and checks the mirror. Definitely too much skin, but she’s never without proper coverage. Hence the reason her tag-alongs are never allowed to take her purse for her or from her or anything in between. They should have realized, of course, that when a woman carries a purse from which she could probably survive a month in the Arctic Tundra, there must be something buried in there. 

For example, a pair of sunglasses, a lock-pick set, and her favorite black leather jacket, the latter for occasions such as this. Which, honestly, is almost every occasion.

As she’s adjusting her shirt, her eyes drift over to him. He is, sweetly enough, standing with his back facing her, finishing with the zipper on his new jeans—and yes, she has a good eye; they look much better on him—and in the brief seconds she has before he quickly pulls the shirt over his head, she’s granted a rather nice view of his back, of pale skin and lean muscles. Then the shirt covers it; he adjusts the fabric accordingly, and then carefully checks over his shoulder. She flashes him a little smirk.

“Your shyness is adorable, Nimbus.” She croons, running a hand through her hair once more before stepping back to the door, sweeping her eyes outside in the little hallway, and straining her ears for any voices. Nothing, so far, but that means nothing; they’re pretty far back in the store, and she’s sure Renold and Carter must have returned by now.

“Alright, seriously,” he hisses, appearing at her side, “ _what_ are you doing?”

“ _We_ ,” she corrects him smoothly, “are getting out of here, because I’m officially bored and feel like spending my evening on the town.”

“I’m supposed to keep you here.” He whispers urgently; she’s fairly certain he’s also looking for any sign of the other two, or an inquiring salesperson, but so far, the coast is clear.

“You, Mr. Nimbus,” she replies, looking at him over one shoulder, “are supposed to keep me safe, and keep an eye on me at all times. If you want to do that,” her lips quirk up in a wicked smile, “you’ll just have to keep up.”

“Miss Darbinyan—”

This isn’t the first time, and it won’t be the last. She’s heard the same protests, more or less, and the same look of abject horror when she darts away without care and without pause. She’s heard people try to keep up with her, time and time again; some of them fail immediately, some of them call out for help if the other guards are nearby, and others keep up with her for a bit.

She doesn’t bother trying to hide and wait for a diversion. Escape is all about speed and quick thinking, about moving the body as fast as it can go while the mind keeps pace. While the legs move, the mind uses sight to see the quickest escape routes and respond immediately when there’s an obstacle in the way. Not that obstacles stop her. She learned long ago that if something is in her way, she either goes around it, knocks it aside, or jumps over it.

The ones who kept up with her usually did so until she stopped running straight. Until Renold and Carter—or whoever else happened to be there at the time—spot her bee-lining it out the exit and down the escalator and she deems it necessary to change course, without warning. That’s usually about the time they give up, or her abrupt shift in direction sends them crashing into something or someone. 

Presently, as she decides the escalator is going too slow and tosses herself over the rail to land semi-gracefully on the floor below—semi, because while she can outrun the devil in any pair of heels she owns, not all of them are suited for steady landings—she’s expecting to hear the footsteps behind her cease, come to a halt, and thinks that when she looks back, this one too will be left in her dust.

But when she feels a hand grab hers, she knows her assumptions are wrong. Then, she thinks he’s actually trying to wrangle her in, and she has the instinctive urge to slap his face off. And then, she’s pulled into a corner, pressed against the wall, and she’s looking at the side of his face. Profile view, because he’s got his head turned to the side and that intent gaze is back. Oh. _Oh._ He’s hiding her. He’s hiding her, and paying close attention to Renold and Carter, ambling down the escalator and yelling to each other about going one way or the other, that she couldn’t have gone far, and so on. The usual script.

He’s very close, and he’s very warm. And he looks so much better in the new clothes. Clothes that actually fit him. She applauds herself a little for how accurately she guessed his size. Especially on the pants.

The minute the other two men pass their hiding place, her hands grab his again. “Exit’s this way.” She whispers, tugging fiercely on their joined hands, and then they’re off again. They’re a good thirty feet away, at least, when she hears the shout and knows Renold has seen her, and Nimbus, and the pursuit will begin again. It’s the same pattern they follow time and time again.

But this time, she’s not alone. She has a partner-in-crime, a companion, someone riding shotgun to her as she barrels down the tracks. It’s nothing she’s used to. This has always been a solo ride for her, and now it’s not. She’s not alone. She’s _not alone_. And that is so very exciting.

When they get out the back door and dart into the alley, her eyes move quickly, looking for the next escape route, and spot a motorcycle parked against the wall. It’s probably a mall employee’s, or maybe someone on the maintenance team, or it could even be an ordinary citizen who left it here because he or she was only going to be gone a short while. The keys are still in the ignition. No helmet, but who needs those?

“Get on.” She says, already, swinging one leg over the seat and settling onto the leather. He joins her as the engine is roaring to life, and puts his hands lightly on her hips. It’s a very respectable and polite position…if they were riding a scooter.

Without a word, she takes his wrists, firmly pulls on his arms and wraps them securely around her, at the ribcage, beneath the bust, and then returns her hands to the handlebars. Turning to look over her shoulder, she tosses him a wink and a grin. “Hold on, baby.”

She has a legal driver’s license, knows how to drive both manual and automatic, loves the feeling of a motorcycle’s engine rumbling to life beneath and against her legs, and could probably operate a full-size semi-truck if she really had to. She’s never had a speeding ticket, and her license has never once been revoked in her life. That doesn’t mean she abides by the posted speed limits, because they’re always far too slow for her liking and no one else ever obeys them anyway, and the rules of the road are more like guidelines than anything.

By the time the bike zips out of the alley and takes the road, she’s already pushing the speed limit for the streets, and by the time she sees her father’s designated Black SUV speed out of the parking garage and begins following her, she’s definitely broken the speed limit by about fifteen miles. And Nimbus’ arms are tightening around her. A lot.

“Ease up, back there.” She calls over the engine. “I can’t drive if I can’t breathe.”

He has some response, but it’s lost in the wind rushing through her ears and the engine’s deafening roar. In the side mirrors, she can see the SUV weaving in and out of traffic and getting closer. Too close.

When she makes a sharp left and turns the bike into a construction zone, probably doing some damage to the tires with all the uneven gravel and broken bits of asphalt, the chest pressed to her back tightens, enough that she can feel it, and her smirk broadens. Now, it’s time to have fun.

As she continues down the zone, ignoring the protests of workers in her way, it becomes clear why the area was blocked off: they’re repairing the bridge. There’s a gap between one side of the bridge and the other, probably about twenty feet, maybe a little more. Of course, there’s a few side streets she can choose, before she even gets to the bridge. They would be perfectly useful for getting her out of here, and they’re all narrow enough that the SUV probably wouldn’t fit. They could take one, any one at all, and be gone.

But what’s the fun in that?

When she accelerates on the gas, she hears something that sounds like a groan, right in her ear, and then Nimbus rests his chin heavily on her shoulder. “Is this completely necessary?” he asks, raising his voice so that she’ll hear him this time.

“Nope.” She answers, her smirk turning into a broad grin, and she presses on the gas even more. His arms tighten once again, and there’s a brief moment when he drops his forehead onto her shoulder and leaves it there, as though he’s giving last rites to himself, and then lifts it back up, just in time to see the bridge approaching very fast, and now that gap looks a little bit less like twenty feet and more like forty feet.

“You ready to fly, baby?” her voice is softer this time, but he’s right there and she knows he hears her even over the noise around them.

“Might as well.” He sighs, in the tone of someone resigned to the fact that they’re going to die today and they’ve made their peace and now it’s just _What the hell_ and _Go for it_.

The tires leave pavement, and the bike soars through the air. The wind stills, just for a moment, and there’s just a moment of tranquility when they’re flying. No ground beneath them, no safety net below them, just the bike, its’ riders, and the open air. Her eyes close, briefly, to draw in breath and savor the sensations. This feels like freedom.

When her eyes reopen, it’s just in time to see the other side of the bridge coming closer and closer and closer, and she actually manages to avoid crashing the motorcycle. In fact, she not only saves the bike but keeps it running, at the same speed, and leaving all and any pursuers in the proverbial dust. They’re gone.

***

He doesn’t quite kiss the ground when she finally parks the bike, but it’s a near miss. At the very least, he takes a minute to lean heavily against the nearest tree and bend himself in half, trying to catch his breath. Good God. _Good God._

“You,” he finally whispers, “are certifiably insane.”

“Thank you.” She says, cheerfully, and shakes her head a few times to bring her windblown curls back into some kind of order. She looks far too at-ease, calm and relaxed and yet excited and her cheeks are flushed pink and her eyes are bright. She nearly got them killed, and she looks like it was the best time she’s ever had. Worse yet, he has the feeling she’s done this before.

The soft _click, click_ of her heels on the sidewalk make him look up, and he finds her standing close with a playful grin on her lips. “Ready to go?”

“Go where…?” he mumbles, head throbbing at the idea of having to do that again. His pulse is beating far too hard and his blood rushing much too fast; his body is tingling and every inch of him feels like he just stuck a fork in the electrical socket.

She shakes her head, ropes her arm around his, and gently tugs him upright. “I didn’t take you on a joyride for nothing, Nimbus. The night is young, as they say. And we’ve got places to go.”

To her credit, she never drives like that again, throughout the night. She does introduce him to some rather impressive cuisine at a local diner—which, honestly, after the formal meals Araz usually has with the family, tastes absolutely amazing and there isn’t a crumb left on his plate when they finish—and then takes him downtown, employing more care to secure the bike than its previous owner who, he has a feeling, will never see this motorcycle again. From there, they mostly walk, and he is shown a different side of the city: the club scene.

Not that he didn’t have a few experiences in his younger days, mostly out of uninformed curiosity and thus resulting in some social embarrassments that he’d rather not repeat and certainly doesn’t want to remember any time soon, but he’s certainly never been as entrenched in the local clubs as Anastazia is. Almost everyone knows her, or knows of her, when they walk in the door, and the bartenders have her drink waiting the moment she walks up to the counter. It’s impressive. And a little concerning.

He stays strictly sober, though the temptation to knock back a couple beers is strong and he almost breaks once or twice. But he’s already ducked out of the mall, completely disregarded the other two family members he was probably supposed to be abiding by, and now he’s sitting in club after club with a very…provocatively-dressed Anastazia. If he still has a job by the end of this night, it will be a relief. If he still has his head, it will be a miracle.

He keeps the same position, sitting at the bar with his eyes constantly scanning the area and taking note whenever someone new walks through the door. He also takes note whenever someone approaches her on the dance floor. It happens quite a few times. He loses track of how many after the tenth hopeful suitor makes his move and is rejected with a cool dismissal.

At some point, he becomes distracted, losing focus on the surroundings and any potential threats and forgetting that there is a very real possibility he’ll be buried in a shallow grave after this night. It doesn’t happen until much later, hours and hours and club after club, but it does happen eventually, and rather abruptly, without any warning. It happens when he looks at her, again, for probably the fiftieth time tonight, and suddenly he forgets all earlier aggravation and anxiety. For all her recklessness and her impulsive nature and the way she nearly got them killed today…she just comes _alive_ on the dance floor.

He’s sure, if she were dressed in that red dress and heels again, she’d be even more of a magnet for every red-blooded male—and, much to his amusement, a couple females—in the vicinity. But really, showing as much leg and bare skin as she is right now, the effect is more or less the same. She moves with the music, the flashing lights playing nicely across warm skin and in the loose mass of golden curls. A couple times, her eyes lift to his, and a smile plays across her lips. He has a difficult time trying to determine just what, exactly, that smile means. Part of him wonders if it’s a coy little expression, or if it’s an I told you so, that they survived the day despite everything, or—and this is the worst possible option—if it’s another silent _Come here_.

He stays put, stays silent, and stays sober. He’s gotten himself in enough trouble tonight.

When she pulls into the driveway, parks the motorcycle with an affectionate little pat to the engine, and they walk inside the house together, it’s a little after one o’clock in the morning, and he’s silently considering how he might be able to talk himself out of losing his job or catching a bullet between the eyes. Anastazia, on the other hand, looks wholly unconcerned, walks right up to her father’s study, and knocks twice on the door. He wonders if this is her way of effectively terminating his employment, ensuring that he’s just another notch under her belt and she’ll need another body guard by tomorrow morning, but says nothing.

“Morning, Daddy.” She chirps, strolling inside with a bright smile. Renold and Carter are inside with Araz; the latter is the first to look up, initially with a glare, but then it changes to a look of confusion at the beaming expression on her face. Then, when she walks right up to him and plants a kiss on his cheek, he looks downright flabbergasted.

“I’m off to bed.” Anastazia continues, with a little wave to the others, who look equally dumbfounded, and pauses at his side with that same strange little smile and a wink. “Goodnight, Nimbus. Sleep well.”

After her footsteps fade down the hall, Araz slowly stands up, fixing him with an odd look. “Did you stay with her all day, Mr. Nimbus?”

 _Here it comes…_ “Yes, sir.”

“All day.” He takes another step forward, with the same look on his face. “You stayed with her all day, every minute of every hour. She never once left your sight.”

Everything coming out of his mouth is a statement, but there’s an underlying question that does at least prompt some kind of confirmative response. And, if he’s going to lose his head, he might as well have the last words from his mouth be honest ones. “Yes, sir.” He says, keeping his gaze steady, because he will not show weakness, especially not in front of those who already think him a weak link. “She never left my sight.”

Araz continues his forward stride in silence, eyes never blinking or wavering, and it’s both unnerving and a little creepy. But he keeps his composure, takes calming breaths, and decides that, really, if this is how it has to end, he’s alright with that. Because, if the truth is to be told, today was…incredible. The adrenaline rush, the way it felt to fly, even for only a few minutes, the way she’d looked so alive and beautiful and like nothing and no one he’s ever seen before in his life…he’s fine with that being his final memory. At least his last day on earth was eventful.

And then, Araz’s hands are on either side of his face, and the cold stoicism fades and is replaced with a broad and overly pleased grin. The hands on his face give a firm pat, a little shake that jolts his head, and Araz releases a slow breath that practically radiates relieved delight.

“Welcome to the family, Kyle.”


End file.
